White Harbor
by RollTodd
Summary: Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen speak again on the sea voyage to King's Landing. Set just after the events of S7E6 and contains SPOILERS.
1. White Harbor

This is the first bit of fan fiction I've ever written, but I really enjoyed that S7E6 scene between Daenerys and Jon and I have some extraordinarily boring phone calls at work. This is a small scene set on the voyage south to King's Landing after S7E6.

...

Jon awoke to the sound of shouting. At first, he thought it the captain bellowing commands, or else an altercation among the crew. It was common enough on most ships and Jon would have expected these sailors to partake in the gambling and shouting bawdy drinking songs that defined their profession, but with the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the King of the North aboard they kept their voices soft and songs sweet. What then was it? While his eyes adjusted to the pale light streaming through the opaque glass windows, his ears focused on the commotion. One voice called for oysters while another for winter crab while another still called for unseen bodies to move out the way. _So we've made port_ , thought Jon, _but where?_ Sating his curiosity, Jon carefully propped himself up and glanced out an open portside window. He glanced a long wooden pier, rows of white stone houses with grey slate roofs, and in the distance a banner boasting a proud merman with a trident in hand. They had arrived in White Harbor.

They had been at sea for days. The going had been tough from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The northern reaches of the Narrow Sea were treacherous in any season, but the winter brought storms that could ruin a fleet let alone a single ship. The rough waves off Skagos had made Jon thankful he did not have to stand on two feet lest he surrender his morning meal to the Drowned God of the ironmen.

Not that the meals had been worth putting down in the first place. They had replenished their stores at Eastwatch, but the men Night's Watch were hardy folk with hardier food. Jon had feasted on salted beef, salted cod, and bread and salt when awake. After years on The Wall, he was used to such fare. Daenerys may have been more disappointed in the North's offerings. He hoped White Harbor would fix that. The North's only true city and seat of House Manderly, the port would renew their stores and their Queen's faith in Northern cuisine.

Jon sank back into the bed and gazed absentmindedly at the timber beams across the roof of the cabin. He thought of the North – the real North – and what he had seen. He thought of Daenerys and her dragons saving his men. And he thought of her and her amethyst eyes, the first thing he had seen when he awoke. He remembered their conversation of a few days past. He recalled her beautiful eyes rimmed with tears as she refused his apologies and grasped his hand. _My queen, I called her_ he thought to himself. The words had seemed to tumble from his mouth. Yet they seemed right.

He had looked into her eyes before she left. She had looked back for an instant. What was it he saw there? Was it loneliness? Hope? Fear? Desire? All of them? Or something else entirely? He felt something with her that he had not felt with his brothers in Winterfell, nor his brothers on The Wall, nor Ygritte nor any other; but, like a dream lost to the first rays of the morning sun, the word eluded him.

"Ah, Your Grace! I'm glad to see you up and well," he heard Ser Davos say as he walked through the cabin door and into the room. The older man held a tankard in his fully fingered hand. Jon's thoughts on Daenerys scattered as he lifted himself to address his visitor.

"Ser Davos, we've made it to White Harbor I see" he said. The first words out of his mouth that morning, they caught in his throat, fighting through phlegm to be heard.

"That we have, Your Grace. Our aft mast needs repair as do the spirits of our good crew." The old smuggler said. He seemed livelier on a ship's deck than he did anywhere else. "We'll be taking on fresh provisions as well. Good winter crab and eel, fresh fish and oysters, warm baked bread and fresh churned butter. I've sent some men to find more suitable fare for the Queen as well." _Queen_ he had called her. Davos did not know of Jon's pledge to Daenerys nor was this even his ship, but as an old sea hand and Hand of the King he knew exactly what to do. "The Manderlys, those not at Winterfell at any rate, have begged the honor of feasting the King in the North. I extended our sincerest gratitude but told them we must be on our way south."

"Thank you, Davos." Jon replied. He could not have attended a feast in his present state but was nonetheless thankful to avoid such a distraction. _They'll need that food now its winter_. He had never truly enjoyed feasts to begin with. The food and music had enticed him as much as any other man. Yet every feast held in the Great Hall at Winterfell had seen his half-brothers and sisters seated at the high table alongside his father and Jon seated off to the side with the stable boys, guards and squires. He never minded a good drink, though.

"Of course, Your Grace," Davos continued. He grinned slightly as he looked into the tankard he held. He walked toward Jon's bed as he continued talking. "It proved quite the battle to get a barrel o' this ale from the innkeep, but it's the finest in all White Harbor, maybe the finest in all the North. The locals seldom give up barrel, even for a king!" Jon took the handle of the tankard Davos was offering him and examined the contents therein. The ale was a deep, dark brown with an earthy smell. He put the tankard to his lips and drank. It was bitter but warmed him on the way down. Just as a good ale should.

"That's good" he smiled at Davos as he set the tankard on the stand next to his bed, "Thank you."

"I'm glad ya like it." His Hand did seem delighted that Jon had enjoyed the ale. "I'll send one of the men down with a hearty morning meal for ya." Jon nodded to show his thanks before closing his eyes and sinking back into the bed.

He heard Davos' footsteps as he moved to exit the cabin and heard his voice once again. "Oh, pardon me, Your Grace." Jon looked up, wondering what the man would want to discuss now. He opened his eyes and looked at the doorway, but Davos was gone. Daenerys stood just beyond the threshold. Jon drank in the sight of her. Her pale hair was styled as it had been these past few days at sea. Her dress was the same as that day he had awoken. Her eyes, however, were different. Gone were the tears, replaced instead by an unblemished and smiling face. Like Davos, she seemed livelier at sea.

"You're awake," she said, smiling slightly.

"Aye, though I hope we'll be back at sea soon. I've come to rely on those winter storms to rock me to sleep like a babe in arms." She laughed softly as she stepped over the threshold and resumed her usual seat beside the bed. She had visited him thrice since they had spoken after he awoke. Once had only been for a few moments, but the other two visits they had talked for hours. They had not talked of the wars, or the Walkers, or her dragons. Nor had they talked of the events that led them to this ship. There would be time for that. Instead, their conversations were easy. She had told him of Tyrion's sweet wine and foul jokes and he had responded with stories of his travels alongside the man when he had first traveled north to join the Night's Watch with his uncle Benjen. On occasion, he heard her voice falter or saw her eyes steal a glance at the scar on his chest, but their conversations had been as sweet and light as springtime air.

"This is Ser Davos' ale," she said, reaching for the tankard Jon had placed at his bedside. "He seemed overly pleased with himself, watching the men role that barrel of his up the plank," she laughed again as she took grasped the tankard and drank the ale therein. The soft features of her face wrinkled in revulsion as she quickly put the ale back in its resting place.

"Not to your liking?" Jon teased.

"Hmmm." She regarded the tankard with a furtive glance, "Perhaps another time. The North certainly has sweeter things to offer." Their eyes met as he leaned on his elbow and sat upright in bed. Again, her gaze drifted down to his chest and the scars that his men had left him, but her amethyst eyes met his grey ones as he rested his back against the headboard.

"When we first met," Jon let the words hand in the air for a moment. Their first meeting had not been pleasant, "you called yourself _Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea_ and Queen of Meereen."

"I did." She responded, affirming the statement but unsure of Jon's direction.

"The Dothraki Sea, Meereen, Astapor where you won your army. Where haven't you been?" he asked.

"King's Landing" she mused, her lip curling upwards in a smirk.

"Aye. Well we'll be there soon enough." Jon replied as he reached for the tankard and took another swig of dark brown ale. The thought of meeting this Lannister queen still bothered him. They were the people who had murdered his father, his brother, who had tormented Sansa and worse. What would he do when he met them? "Tell me about Meereen," he offered a different topic.

Her smile faltered for but a second, long enough for Jon to know the question had awakened an unpleasant thought, but not long enough to end their conversation. "Meereen was dusty," she said quietly, as if afraid the Meereenese would hear her, "and warm. The city is built of brick, and the eastern sun cooks the buildings all day. When the sun sets, the buildings are still warm. You could sit in the courtyard long into the night and not feel a chill." Her eyes brightened somewhat at the thought of warmth and comfort. "And the Great Pyramid, almost as high as The Wall. There was a terrace and garden courtyard atop the pyramid with a persimmon tree-"

"-persimmon?" Jon interrupted. He did not recognize the word.

"It's a fruit." Daenerys told him, "reddish-orange and sweet. You'd like it," she mused, seemingly somewhat frustrated at the interruption. Jon could not imagine a tree of fruit beyond the few apple trees that grew around Winterfell. The trees at The Wall bore no fruit. "I would lounge beneath it in the afternoons after my council meetings. Sometimes in the morning I would catch Ser Barristan cutting his breakfast from the tree with his longsword." She smiled again, though the mention of the old knight seemed to prevent her smile from reaching her eyes.

"Ser Barristan?" Jon asked, "Barristan the Bold?"

"You knew him?" Daenerys asked.

"Knew of him, I suppose." Jon replied. What boy in the Seven Kingdoms did not know of Barristan the Bold? His feats in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and duels against the Kingswood Brotherhood were the stuff of legend, even in the North. "He was always Robb's favorite."

"Robb… Your brother Robb?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly. His face fell without his knowing. Half-brother by law, Robb had been his best friend growing up at Winterfell. Stalwart, steadfast, and brave, the first King in the North in 300 years had marched south to rescue their father and never returned. Jon still remembered their goodbye in the castle courtyard. The same courtyard where they had pretended to be knights as boys. It all seemed a lifetime ago. "I'm sorry…" Dany laid her hand on his forearm and looked into his eyes. Beautiful violet eyes that had seen as much pain as Jon's greys. He wanted to lose himself in those eyes.

"No- It's fine- It's…. Aye, my brother Robb. Strong and smart and fierce. You two would have gotten along," he smiled half-heartedly. "As boys we'd pretend to be Barristan the Bold and other knights of the Kingsguard. Fighting off imaginary foes with fearsome wooden blades." She kept her hand on his arm.

"He sounds like he was a good man," she said softly.

"He was," Jon replied. "You had a brother too?"

"Two," her voice seemed distant, "I never knew Rhaegar, but Barristan told me of the kind of man he was. Strong and smart and fierce like Robb, but gentle and kind and fond of music. If I could find half of him in myself the Seven Kingdoms would never know better days. Viserys I knew too well. He was troubled, fear turned him cruel and jealous, but fear kept us both alive. I wouldn't be here without him. He took care of me and protected me when others withheld their hands. There was always good in him… They were my brothers, the last Targaryens, and now they're gone…" her voice cracked as she spoke the final words. Jon took her hand and held it firm. His queen kept her composure, but silence overtook them for a moment. This seemed to happen every time. No matter the subject, they always found themselves discussing tragedy when moments before they'd been talking of something as simple as a fruit tree.

They held each other's gaze and did not look away. Finally, Jon spoke, "Dany…" She had refused the name before, and her mentioned just now of her brother convinced Jon he would be met with another rebuke, but none came. Instead, they say in silence, her hand on his arm for a brief and blissful moment, until the creak of timbers and shouts from the deck above brought them to.

"We must be casting off now" she said, looking upwards, as if seeing through the timbers to the deck above. Indeed they were. Even from his bed Jon could feel the ship shift as the tides grabbed her hull and brought her back to the waters of the Narrow Sea. Soon they would be back amongst the storms and waves, heading south toward the capital.

Daenerys slowly stood from her seat and smiled again. "You should rest, Jon" she said softly.

"Aye, but first some food. Davos said he'd send a man down with something but I never saw it." Jon joked, but only partly. He was hungry.

She took the tankard of ale and walked toward the cabin's exit before turning, "I'll see that someone brings you a meal fit for a king." Her eyes met his again as she smiled.

"Thank you. You can finish Davos' ale or throw it into the sea, just don't let him see," he responded playfully, "and perhaps, if you can, scour the stores for a persimmon." He saw her smile again as she looked away and walked toward the stairs and decks above. Jon sank back into the furs of his bed, content to listen to the waves crash against the hull of their ship.


	2. The Fingers

This is a continuation of the journey down to King's Landing between S7E6 and S7E7. I've decided to explore Davos' point of view.

...

Davos inhaled deeply as he stepped out onto the deck of the _Swiftwing_. A bit of morning mist in his lungs always did him good after a night crammed in the musty quarters below deck. It felt cool and clean. Mist was a common occurrence in The Fingers. The frigid air from the Mountains of the Moon would oft flow down and cover the southern Vale in a thick layer of fog. Gulltown would be close, perhaps less than a day's sail away, but with the mists so thick he could not say which direction was which.

The only thing he could see was the crew going about their morning duties. Two ironmen tended the rigging while a thin, copper-skinned Dornishman coiled rope. There were men from Dragonstone on board as well as sailors that Daenerys had brought with her from the east. On dry land the men may have kept to themselves and eyed each other suspiciously, but Davos knew that a ship could erase those boundaries. Once you had shared a story, bunk, or pint of ale with a man, or seen him through his first storm at sea, it did not matter from whence he came.

Be that as it may, these men were still strangers to Davos and hard at work besides. He would not bother them now. Instead, he produced block of fresh pine wood from one of his pockets and small knife from another. Davos had never been a master craftsman, but he enjoyed whittling and carving nonetheless. He examined the block. It was piece of northern pine he had acquired in White Harbor was light yet sturdy, ideal for crafting a small figurine. _What to make this time? A dragon? A wolf?_ He wasn't sure. The knife he held in his fully fingered hand began peeling away thin strips of wood as if acting of its own accord.

He could not truly say how long he had been whittling, but when he finally looked up the morning mist had thinned somewhat. He heard footsteps from below and turned to see Jon emerge from the staircase that led to the cabins below with Queen Daenerys behind him. The King in the North was strong enough to leave his bed now, but the wounds he had suffered beyond The Wall still left him weakened and in need of assistance. Sometimes Ser Jorah Mormont or young Gendry helped Jon move about the ship. He seemed particularly close with the Baratheon bastard, but most of his time was spent with Daenerys. _Time spent on a ship can bring people together…_

Davos put the pine block and whittling knife aside and rose to greet the two. "Your Grace," he nodded at Jon, "and Your Grace. A good morning to ya both."

"Morning, Davos," Jon replied. _He looks stronger. Good._

"Good morning Ser Davos," Daenerys smiled at him. Courtesies observed, they both turned and walked to the upper deck toward the ship's bow. They seemed to enjoy spending their time above deck watching the waves crash against the prow and scouting the horizon for ships or the shore for landmarks. Davos left them to it, grabbing his whittling knife and moving toward the ship's aft. There he found the helmsman, whom the crew called "Old Oak", manning the helm. Davos could easily see how he earned the name. The man was short but burly and barrel chested. His arms were muscled and thick as tree branches and covered in coarse white hair. His calloused hands held the helm firm. Stout, strong, and rooted at his post, Old Oak was every bit the old sailor.

Davos had spent time speaking with the man before, always while he kept the _Swiftwing_ 's course. They had talked of their lives. Davos had told him of his youth in Fleabottom and life as a smuggler. In turn, he had learned Old Oak was born on Dragonstone and had manned its ships for most of his life. " _Stag's Leap_ , she was called once," he had said, patting the dark wood of the hull with his meaty hand. "Changed her name once Her Grace arrived home. Thought that'd be better for a dragon." Davos nodded in agreement. If the helmsman had lived on Dragonstone for most of his life, Davos had no doubt seen him before when he had served Lord Stannis, but he did not recognize him. _It all feels like a lifetime ago._

Davos enjoyed spending time with the man. Once, Old Oak had spotted a mass of colored sails on the eastern horizon. "Pirates," he had said grimly, "Purple sails by the look, or blue, might be Tyroshi… Not that they'll trouble us." He had nodded up at the black sails painted with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. _Seems the cloth dragons are as useful as the real ones when it comes to keeping foes at bay._ Though traveling with a single ship, the _Swiftwing_ had remained unmolested all the way from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Perhaps the black sails and dark hull hid them from sight, but Davos knew better. _Who would risk dragonfire for a few chests of gold?_ On the Blackwater, he had seen – _felt_ \- what fire could do to ships and the men aboard them. _Mathos…_

"I recall the day she was born" Old Oak said gruffly, interrupting Davos' thoughts and nodding at the prow of the ship where Queen Daenerys stood alongside Jon. "Was the worst storm I ever seen, it was. I manned an oar on the _Queen Rhaella_. Newest ship in the Royal fleet at the time, but that didn't make no matter. New ships do as good as old against rocks. The waves smashed to the entire fleet to bits that night."

"The _Queen Rhaella_?" asked Davos. He remembered seeing the massive galley on one of his many trips to King's Landing. Her five banks of oars painted in the alternating red and jet black of House Targaryen had been a sight to behold.

"Aye," Oak smiled as he turned toward Davos and lifted his tunic to show two large faded red scars along his lower right side. "I still carry tokens of her affection," he explained, "a splintered oar grazed me side as I escaped the wreck…" he adjusted his clothing as he resumed his position, gazing toward the bow of the ship and beyond. "Still, here I am. The old maester bound my wounds and set me right."

Oak continued to ramble on about his life, but Davos had stopped paying attention. _Those scars…_ He had seen worse, of course. His own shortened fingers were a testament to that. And then there was Jon. He looked to where the young King in the North stood at the other end of the ship, Daenerys by his side. It was not long ago that he had pulled the former Lord Commander's bloodied corpse from the courtyard of Castle Black. He had done the same a fortnight past when Jon had found his way back to The Wall.

Davos had seen enough men fall into the freezing waters of the northern Narrow Sea to notice the signs of exposure. He and the men had taken Jon to the ship, stripped his of his tattered, frozen furs and treated him as best they could. The Queen had looked on in silence all the while. Indeed, she had seldom left his side for the days he slept. Sometimes Davos would enter the cabin to find her and Ser Jorah talking quietly, elsewise he found her sitting alone.

On the second day of their journey, Davos had brought a platter of bread and salted beef alongside a skin of weak red wine. "Apologies, Your Grace," he said softly "it's no fare fit for a Queen, but ya should eat something." She had looked up at him with a smile that failed to reach her eyes before her gaze fell to the platter he had offered. Unsure of the situation, Davos continued, "We'll find better in White Harbor of course, but-"

"-Thank you, Ser Davos" she had responded, taking the platter from his hands.

"Your Grace… If I may, it might do you some good to spend time above deck. The waves are a bit rough, but I always find the cool sea breezes…" his words faded away as she looked up at him. Davos knew that look. He had seen it before when Jon had announced his intentions to go north of The Wall in the council chambers at Dragonstone. She wanted to be left alone with him.

"Your Grace," Davos had delivered a curt bow as he turned and left the room.

"-and now here she is. Robert's dead. His brothers are dead. His sons? Dead. But the little queen is back home." _Was he still talking?_ Davos turned to look at Oak.

"What?" he asked the helmsman.

"The queen," he said, jutting his chin once again toward the bow, "she's outlasted them all."

"Aye. That she has," Davos responded "Perhaps they'll name the next war galley after her. I expect the _Queen Daenerys_ will need an experienced captain," he flashed the man a smile.

"Ha! That she may, that she may," he chuckled.

Davos stood from his makeshift seat, patted the old sailor on the back with his good hand, and left Old Oak to his task. He walked down the stairs to the central deck, took up his seat on the crate, and began whittling once again. The thinning mist caressed his face as he worked. The steady rise and fall of the _Swiftwing_ on the sea lulled him into a trance. One cut into the soft wood after another, his work slowly took shape. He couldn't say how long had passed, but when he looked up again the mists had cleared and the morning sun stood taller in the sky.

He stood again as Daenerys made her way down the stairs to the central deck. Once on level with Davos, she turned and offered Jon her hand, helping guide him down. Still unsteady on his own two feet, Jon grasped her hand and the railing as he slowly made his way down. Davos stood suddenly, his knife and carving falling to the deck, as Jon stumbled on the uneven planks. He caught himself before he fell, left knee lunging forward and gloved hand touching the deck. Davos moved to help his King, but Daenerys was already there, helping him to his feet.

"Not the way I planned it," grunted Jon through gritted teeth as he took Daenerys' hand and slowly rose. He turned to Davos and nodded his thanks for the offered assistance before looking back at Daenerys. Davos caught the glimmer in his eyes as he gazed at the Queen for but a second. Son of a king or son of a crabber, _that_ look meant the same thing. _It's not just sailors who developed special bonds at sea._

The royal pair smiled at Davos and moved to the staircase that led back to the cabins below. Davos smiled to himself and turned back to his whittling. He stooped to retrieve the wood block he had tossed aside when Jon fell. It was smoother now than it had been earlier than morning, with curves and cuts that Davos did not truly remember making. He turned the block in his good hand, inspecting his work. Though still rough, a head had been carved from the soft pine, long like a horse's. He removed his glove and ran his thumb over the wood, feeling the indents he had made for the eyes, the small stubs that he would turn into pointed ears, and the antlers that crowned the unfinished figurine's head. Slowly, the old smuggler exhaled the breath he did not realize he was holding and turned to look out over the western horizon.


End file.
